The wrong type of luck...

Ralph Lauren’s model Nacho Figueras can be spotted weekly, Madonna vacationed here last summer; there are stories of Prince Charles, presidents and movie stars. A whole gammet of influential people really. It’s invitation only when cameras and gossip columnists are permitted at 3667 120th Avenue South. The address belongs to the International Polo Club.

My naked toes sink into a thick carpet of Kentucky blue grass. I sit on a blanket far away from the grand stands, but the sounds of muscular bay and chestnut horses galloping at full speed on the acres of manicured fields reach me perfectly.

I don’t know that later tonight a handsome guy in his twenties will be driving home to celebrate his sister’s birthday. His name is Scott Wilson. Also tonight there is a much-anticipated fete where the polo elite are expected. These parties last until the wee hours, until the valet pulls around every last porsche. And then the polo players and girlfriends and grooms stagger home. My sister is one of those staggering home with juicy stories and sore feet from dancing.

Right now I’m watching the last chucker of a twenty-goal tournament. Wisps of afternoon cloud are nearly invisible against the sapphire sky. I observe the battle with fascination. Gripping reins in one hand and swinging a mallet with the other, each polo player wears a brightly-colored jersey. The player and his horse are both sweaty and determined; they also share an equal love for the game. They move together as a single weapon.

This is no child’s play… this is the sport of Kings.

Scott is a soon-to-be engineer. He is kind and responsible. Police regularly patrol Wellington, Florida. The quiet streets are lined with gated communities and horse farms. The Wilson’s live in a safe neighborhood.

100-yards from where I’m sitting I spot the magnificent stands overlooking the polo fields. There are champagne flutes smudged with pink lipstick, and caviar spit out on linen napkins. The women are in white capris and hold onto the elbows of men with salt and pepper hair, who are smoking cigars and standing in penny loafers. My sister is with my brother and father – they know all these people. I don’t ride horses like everyone else, I’m just a curious bystander really… The palm trees sway with the cool breeze. This utopia hinges on surreal.

At 1am Scott will pause at a stop sign at 120th Street and then his car will be violently hit by a drunk driver.His car will flip over and land in one of the canals that snake between the walkways and driveways. The metal and rubber will drown and his body will be found buckled in the front seat tomorrow morning, on his sisters’ birthday.

But for now I’m just a spectator, my legs are outstretched on the blanket and I'm massaging my calves with lotion. I'm wearing a hat and sipping on lemonade. I’m one of the thousands of people who have had great fun at the International Polo club. The place is at no fault, the people here are at no fault - it is still as enchanting as it has ever been. A mistake and inexplicable luck is all that happened...

I might be exploiting a story by delving into its emotions face first, but I don’t care… breathe its angst, digest its lessons. Lately shit has happened. Sad stuff that leaves you hungry for understanding. The stuff that leaves you strangled with despair and eager to believe that there is something greater than us, A God - watching our back. But with this shit? How could it be so? So then we succumb to Darwin, or something else who convinces us we control our existence. We operate as mammals; fretting about this damaged earth. Animalistic in logic and emotional with irrationality, we try not to kill each other and ourselves in the process. We try to better the planet, smile and locate laughter whenever the comedy channel can be found. Oh there is glorious stuff; the home runs, relaxing over a candle lit dinner, or playing golf on a Saturday morning. Or blowing candles out with your loved ones singing around you. I must to unearth something to learn from this wretched blog post, or the disturbing articles. Even if it's just one more designated driver, or cab ride home next Saturday night.

The man who hit Scott left that party a little early. He put his key in the ignition and sped out of the parking lot and with one run of a stop sign, he changed hundreds of lives. He is a wealthy staple in this tight-knit community– his face is familiar and welcomed around Wellington. He is a gregarious and generous fellow – he is a father. Many extending far beyond Scott’s family will be deeply affected by this split-second error, an intersection of lives... the irony. The scars from shame and frustration – a missing parent now in his children's childhood. Almost self-inflicted in a way. Those wounds are tragic, but they still scar. It is unnatural for a parent to lose a child... that pain never heals. To know your child should never have been stripped of a plentiful and rich future was, dozens of years too early. That has to hurt.

There were countless people who survived 9/11 by chance, they were supposed to be in those buildings. They had dentist appointments, or chose a different route to work … experienced a little mishap, one of those that make us run a little bit late, the annoyances we curse until we realize that teeth cleaning or that iota of stupidity is responsible for saving our life. But what about when there is no mishap and we’re led directly into our own demise? They don't call it bad luck for nothing. Can we navigate our way around misfortune, can we?

What was the reason, if there could even be a reason? For now I'll watch the polo ponies knowing that nothing bad could ever happen in this chunk of peaceful, manicured land - the people around me, who live in these homes are responsible and nice. Here I believe, I'm far from violence.

At 1am the streets will still be empty of cars – restaurants will be closed and it will be too early for people to leave the nightclubs. Only stars and barely a sliver of moon, will leave the night pitch black. How will it be that the only two cars deserted on this road manage to find each other?

I was in bed during the car crash, but if the drunk driver would have left five minutes earlier, it might not have been Scott. Someone else was on the same road five minutes earlier... the person killed could have been my little sister.

Starbucks - Random

Starbucks offers more than a triple venti latte with soy, half a scoop of cinnamon, and finally a dollop of whip crème. Oh, it’s a hub of business meetings, writers, students and girlfriends catching up, a prime location for first dates, and a desirable neutral/safe zone to hand off kids. Sounds dismal. I spy on a mom with two toddlers - clearly handing them off to a father .He is so excited to hug them and has saved a table in the corner. Two chocolate donuts are waiting on two napkins. She’s giving him a disproving glare. I could stipulate that their normal form of communication involves email and two cc’d lawyers. But that’s just my guess.

There is a homeless guy playing the accordion outside, there are two women dazzling in jewels and then two guys, maybe eighteen or nineteen with calculators and chewing on erasers. The social environment which appears to appeal to all walks of life - you’ll locate familiarity in all of the thousands monopolistic cafes; the same mahogany tables, the calming hunter green and the same vanilla scones- well it’s a classier McDonalds model - the same dependable taste whether I’m in Hong Kong or Sydney, New York, or Plainville, Texas. This is a brilliant conglomerate in which I wholeheartedly support.

A weird thing happened recently: Serendipity, happenstance, however you want to phrase the absurd conversations that leave me a bit unhinged and more weirded out than say, the average “hola” to my neighbor.

Two Saturday’s ago I ventured into Starbucks on Colo. Blvd. – it was 11pm and I was desperate to see proof of humanity. I’d spent the majority of the blizzard day working in my apartment. Thanks to the Denver population (roughly 17 people) I climbed into my car with sweats to drive through the snow to locate the only 24-hour Starbucks. There is a one almost-empty table, an older man with a leathered briefcase with small circular glasses, dark skin with very short black hair. He is packing his bag, sipping the last of his coffee and brushing the crumbs off the table. I make a run for it.

All I want is to turn on my computer, shut the world out (such an oxymoron, since I’m at Starbucks to see other humans blaring miscellaneous music and pounding out whatever on Apple keyboards, or lost in textbooks), blare my music and continue my love affair with Microsoft Word.

“So why does a woman like you come to Starbucks at 11pm at night?” He probed. He had a thick accent, pausing at the vowels.

I jumped, expecting him to take his briefcase and give me his table... not trying to start talking at this ungodly hour.

“I need some energy.” Was all my brain could rummage up at the moment as I was wiping the whip creme off my chin.

His eyes were skeptical. He questioned my answer, “Like what kind of energy?”

“You know, like I just needed to get out of the house.” I explained, annoyed. He wasn’t leaving the table.

“Sure, I understand.” He said without a clue as to what I was explaining.

I glance at the papers on the table and see foreign formulas in various colors, equations of sorts.

He noticed I was staring, “Oh those are formulas - I’m a physics professor and I was just helping some students better understand Einsten’s Zero-point Energy theory. It’s why I was a bit fascinated when you said you were seeking out energy tonight. Essentially it explains the transmission of energy.

Not only did I get what I was seeking, but I got a full blown explantion of why and how I was receiving exactly what I’d asked the world for, literally. This man and I sat down and talked for an hour. This sixty-something fatherly figured was so eager to explain the law of gravity, how to create magnetic force from mere metal, how the law of relativity is flawed, light-years, space-ships, you name it - this guy could explain it, and I was actually, truly enjoying learning such interesting, scientific theory.

I’m now a believer in the blind law of attraction. Sometimes you get what you want - and sometimes you're given exactly what you've requested, but weren't expecting at all.

Ask for surprise and baby, it will hunt you down….

Until it is exhaling fate in your face, it’s a surreal experience, and one stemming easily from energy.

Serendipity will smack you across your face when you have doubt, seeking answers, and when you’re about to abandon hope. It’s that little message saying, “hold on” the answer is almost, not quite, but soon approaching you… You’ve heard all the stories. You can trace the climatic part of your life back to a conscious choice, a song on the radio, a phone call, the person you met on an airplane, or ran into at the grocery store...

Fate isn’t random, it’s a simple negotiation – you’ve put a want out into the world and serendipity is signing off on it– with a little injection in the middle of your day. Nobody would know it were coincidence except for you – so somewhere in your subconscious you were asking for it.

I have this crazy belief that people cross your path for a reason -and sometimes the reason won't make sense for a long time after.

It was late October on a Tuesday afternoon, dark outside, it was after an accounting class and blizzarding. I was crutching through the snow as pathetic as you can imagine a girl with a broken hip could be. And I had called a yellow cab because a girl with a broken hip can't drive. And hobbling through the slush (this is truly a pitiful sight) the cab rolls away from the back of the parking lot, leaving me freezing and stuck at school.

Lugging my backpack inside the building, I huddle on a bench trying to get hold of the cab company. A lovely woman, a professor sees this desperate sight and offers to drive me home. Knowing she had an office next to my adviser, and having said hello before, I accepted. We got to chatting during the drive and I admitted while I loved numbers, words sorta turned me on as well. She suggested I meet her friend (an editor at a magazine- unnamed) for a cup of coffee. I was offered a job on the spot, and through word of mouth I found out about the magazine I'm currently at... landed that gig, and voila here is now. And I can't imagine being any happier...

I sometimes wonder where I'd be, instead of this chair,
writing this email, had that cab waited just one minute longer.

Wolverine Meets Jim Carrey and Kate Winselt at a Bar...

Only if Clementine and Joel had some adamantium… amnesia would have been far less painful.

Carmelo Anthony hopefully has that sick shot he hit two seconds before the buzzer against Dallas engraved deep in his brain. Not only do Denver fans have it etched in forever, but also Mark Cuban certainly won’t dismiss that painstakingly spectacular play.

Right now the hundreds of emails, phone messages and errands demanding attention tomorrow are eating away at my snoozing hours tonight.

I fantasize one day I’ll awake with total command of my thoughts, or the digressions or derivatives, the random flurries of nonsense that fall and sneeze on each other while I’m trying to be productive at the magazine. I'll reach over to hit my alarm and, WHAM discover this pre-programmed remote control, user-friendly buttons, to easily switch channels from friends to cocktails, to sports to the golf course, a pedicure and eating something awesome. Finally with the ability to TiVo certain situations I"m not in the mood to participate, and rewind for later use.

But what if the brain were a sponge, no rather, an organized filing cabinet, the colorful steel boxes from Target, or better yet, an unbreakable hard drive. So upon approaching capacity, there was an option to filter through the moments, and delete what is no longer worth reconsidering, or replaying. So instead of letting my present get burned by my past, I could hold on to the good stuff.

But in two of my favorite films, Wolverine and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, (which could possibly be metaphorical for real-time examples), each protagonist faces a similar challenge, should some of the mind be deleted, and if so, which parts?

It appears in both films that the really good stuff is eventually what both characters erase.

And the bad stuff will be left in decent condition for reminiscing purposes... to scold and teach, and reenforce how “good” things currently are. Because if we tasted the good for how great it actually was, it would be painful to know it no longer exists.

Clementine: This is it, Joel. It's going to be gone soon.
Joel: I know.
Clementine: What do we do?
Joel: Enjoy it.

And so as the sunshine peeks over the tall buildings and floods my bedroom come 6am, my blackberry, a photo shoot, the dry cleaner will drown me. Followed the chaos will be a desperate drive in attempt to make my red eye flight. And chances are I’ll forget that I wrote this entire rambling to begin with. But chances are a funny thing …

It is impressive when an individual can leave the past in a alphabetized scrapbook, and then has the self-discipline to pull out a fading moment with only the intention to shine, buff and neatly tuck away like an old photograph for safekeeping. There are the few recollections that haven't found a home. The delicate times that can't be inserted into a labeled folder, an old drawer, or shoved into a space in the back of my brain for a particular chapter.

These are the depreciating memories taking up occupancy, the ones I expect to lose value, and once that happens they'll be replaced by moments even more wonderful. But as stubborn as they were real, these silly little memories hold on through the night, stick with me through the chilly seasons, warm me when I lose hope, and keep me awake when the calendar becomes too comfortable.

The unexpected surprises, unanticipated opportunities, the successful triumps, and the unpredictable losses. There is love, and then there is strength, when injustice took a punch, and you proved to yourself you were stronger than fear, and the odds.

Those are the powerful memories, the moments so good they hurt, and they never fail to remind me where in life I’m headed, and what has already been left behind.

CABS ARE FOR KISSING...... Be Bullish - It Ain’t All Bullshit

Dr. Dre raps with vigorous rhythm; the chandeliers teeter above the expensive champagne and indifferent chatter. It’s 2am and I’m nodding blindly to a handsome bloke in the lower east side. Brooks Brothers button down with silk tie, topped with Northface fleece, he reeks of a background with athletic lacrosse peppered with staunch politics, a valuable pedigree no doubt. A handsome ventriloquist, I assume he practices pick-up lines in his bathroom mirror, a day trader at Goldman Sachs I feel a bit sad he’ll go home alone tonight.

Denver is a decent dating city – but it can’t hold a lighter against New York. Lawyers, photographers, doctors, artists… if you’re on the market than there is no more an appropriate place to barter your soul. Trading securities for one-night stands, sacrificing fertility for money, it’s a hub of eccentric, ambitious, and if you put in enough time passionate success stories. There is a resurgence of available bankers (not brokerage), so if that’s the fancy you’re golden.

With energy he explains equities and derivatives, assuming I’m devouring his mouth-watering financial terms. Not an obtuse, gold-digging, blowjob giving robot incapable of comprehending simple elementary concepts, I throw him a bone. Rummaging for some Kantianism theory and stats from last week’s Economist, it’s just a ploy. A wicked way I entertain myself… I pretend to be smart. Don’t misunderstand– while not a mensa, I’m not stupid, I’m hungry for knowledge. But I can fake brilliant when I’m too sick of egos to give them that syrupy grin again and again, they’ve come to expect from women. The male brain might be bigger – one must not underestimate the size of a woman’s intuition. Swallowing the bitter taste of the gin & tonic, the smile of one particular person haunts me, and it isn’t the man standing less than a foot from my face, exhaling whisky breath, savoring the sound of his own Harvard certified verbiage.

The probability that I’m searching for viable material to exploit and analyze is guaranteed, but I’m now at a disadvantage. Now smitten, no conversation can be objective, every man is flawed, and while the world appears rosier – the control I once had over my schedule and bedtime has momentarily fled. And so there are multiple subjects I’m writing about that don’t directly relate, they are braided together by recent experiences that cannot be separated.

Are you in control of your life? Have you ever fallen in love with someone you're not sure if you should be in love with? Did you run away abandoning part of your heart; or rather did you give in, hoping chemistry will combust in due time? But I can’t imagine anything worse than involuntarily wasting time. It can’t be renewed, or reissued, purchased at a premium or a discount… It’s all risk and no return. Why the hell would we waste the one real resource we’re born with… handing someone undeserving a chunk of our precious life?

Hauling my red valise through the chilly air I climb inside a taxi off of 17th and Irving Street. The hint of red zinfandel lingers on my tongue and rather than nibbling on feta with friends I’m hauling my tired ass on an airplane.

“So you want to give me some advice?” I sigh.
“I charge extra.” He laughed. Mid-fifties with a authentic Brooklyn accent, I relaxed myself into the back of his cab ready to enjoy a conversation with someone I assumed I’d never see again. It was liberating to talk about myself without having to worry about the repercussions of secret-spilling, or making sure coffee dates are equally divided between all parties’ problems.

And while the love advice he gave me was sound.... I’ll get to the meaty part of our conversation…

“What are you doing in the city.” He asked.
“ Some meetings here, some meetings there. I write.” I responded.
“Articles and stuff?”
“Yes.” I shrugged; much too tired to explain the concept and the twenty-minute elevator pitch that came along with my answer.

“I write a blog.”
My ears perked, “Oh is that so?”
“It’s called “Cabs are For Kissing”… www.cabsareforkissing.com

Brilliant! And suddenly serendipity hit me hard and I had to run to make my flight....

STUCK IN AN ELEVATOR. Aka: Involuntary Confinement with a Broken Blackberry

A temporary ride in a small square cubicle…

Objective: Vertical Transportation.
Obstacle: Polite requiem/bad weather jokes.
My advice: Make sure you hit the powder room before climbing on board.

Around ten pm an elevator decided to stop between the 18th and 19th floor of my building, with me as its lucky passenger. Fortunately (unlike most of my jaunts in elevators) I was well equipped. Expecting company the next day and far too lazy to stop by a liquor store I had purchased a bottle of vino in Earl’s (conveniently corked) not an hour earlier. So while my friends were waiting downstairs at Earl's for me to grab a sweater… The elevator chose to take a breather.

The car sort of vibrated a bit and then a hefty CLUNK. Not shaking, not like an earthquake, but enough for a girl who is phobic of getting stuck in an elevator, crashing to my own demise (pitch black in a box – always think worst case scenario) to get scared. I begin searching the box for an alarm… a search button of sorts.

Before pulling my blackberry out to call 911… an omnipresent husky voice asked, “Are you okay?”

Bewildered....I examine myself. Search the ceiling for cameras and respond with a whimper, “Yes, but I’m a bit afraid.”

Terrified, and irritated that my friends will all be taking shots soon and I’ll just be trying to entertain myself with no book, or lap top or boyfriend, or even a freaking stranger! While my building is the safest, soundest and most bulletproof structure west of the Mississippi I felt like Karma was catching up with me. The only proof I could rummage up after being told to “press certain buttons, hold tight, be patient, all is good, we’ve called the fire department” was, “I am the least patient person in the universe (notoriously late) and so this is what God had to do to me.”

I stretched my calves and uncorked my bottle of cab, and starting fishing for sympathy texts from every poor soul in my address book. Damn, it’d be funny to pull together stories of people that got stuck in elevators, imagine the conversations?

The little bar on my blackberry was blinking with exhaustion, and soon I realized the only conversation I’d be enjoying was the one with myself (and the occasional few words with the technician trying to get me free from the locked jaws of this stupid freight elevator- padded walls included)…. Woops, did I leave that part out?

So my mind wondered past my To Do lists…. Fretted a bit about tomorrow, but when I realized I had nothing other than me to keep myself company (As a guilty extrovert - I was screwed)… I allowed my thoughts to lollygag and linger, rehashing happy memories, replaying the euphoric hours happening just days before ...... again and again.

When you're so caught up in the present, tangled in incredible conversation, the type where the words someone is saying, are so captivating you don't want to stop listening, but just thirsty for more... that's when you know you're living. Lately I'd enjoyed many an exchange so titillating... I appreciated my time locked nineteen stories above the Mile High City to step back. I carefully sorted through the layers of laughter and serious discussions, and pure curiosity to figure out what exactly about those particular conversations was so powerful.

Sometimes I get so busy loving/scheduling/analyzing life... I forget I can derive joy from a memory every time I pause long enough to relive it...

Then arrive the succulent memories, the funny ones, the comical anecdotes that rip sanity from your innards leaving your stomach aching with raw… so tender and so exhilarated…

You’re alive.

I chortled like a drunk idiot to the chilly air (I was nursing the red wine slowly… in fear of being discovered by firefighters intoxicated, but much more terrified of the possibility I’d have to tinkle and well…. Enough Said!) and when sitting up was no longer fun. I scooted my rear end up to the wall, extending my legs upward, so I appeared to be a massive L shape…getting my jacket and jeans and hair dirty, and relishing the unanticipated silence.

Until a knock on the door and five fire fighters appeared above me, ladder in tow, ready to save me from my adventure in solitary confinement. I was a bit sad to wave goodbye to my little box, the same box I’d venture into the next morning or evening.. the same box that carries me from my home and back. But now the box had more of me in it… memories, ideas, internal dialogue, the personal thoughts that make you smile…
Had I not pushed that button on that Saturday night, never would have come to fruition.


Sometimes when you’re all alone and you don’t have a choice, but to sit there and let your brain go where it may… are the moments worth holding onto.

Conclusion: Never enter an elevator without an extra cellphone battery and a bottle of booze.

Who needs Prozac when you've got Oprah?

There is something so fabulously sobering about Oprah. I haven't necessarily given the ol' benefit of the doubt to afternoon-diva-psychologist-ceo.... She is like Mother Teresa only a Democrat, wears Jimmy Choos and throws fetes with people like Elton John. I was undergoing a massive pity party around 3am last night and Conan was over, and there you go the only thing on besides acutane infomercials is Oprah.

Thinking she had maybe some author on (the only bonus from her show I figure)... There she is... grinning ear-to-ear discussing what life is like from down under… and not with Dr. Oz (her sidekick). Her guest was a 3-foot-midgit; she was a 26-year-old brunette that was born, just like really small. And she was spunky and sassy and witty as hell! I thought… well who needs Prozac when Oprah can send you on a spellbound guilt trip riddled with gratefulness. Stupefied on the edge of my duvet... that this woman could be so pumped up about life it was my responsibility (as someone born of ordinary height) to save the world.

Ran Away from Freedom

For miles yesterday I ran. I ran away from my to-do lists and piles of laundry. It’s so freeing to watch the world from a pair sneakers, never know what tidbits of life you can see from the pavement. The stories about the couples holding hands, the dogs walking their owners, the strollers being pushed by twentysomethings in maturity clothing, laughing together. Enjoying a moment they're never aware I’m sharing with them, but only for a second, until they're out of sight and behind me.

Viridian camouflage, unmistakable and identifiable from an airport, grocery store aisle, or the front page of the newspaper. The thick material soaked in variations of greens and tans, like a habit to a nun, concealing the body to hide it of its humility, or more likely when it’s a woman, her feminity.

With the bulky boots and stoic expressions, there might as well have had a botox booth set up for the returning army. Underneath the helmet I see eyes looking out to the bodies of civilians that have come to support the troops, arriving in their minivans, with toddles crying and bulky jackets. I’m at 16th and Wynkoop in Downtown Denver and there is a small group of soldiers and a smaller group of citizens, some PR attempt to bring the world back together. The soldiers and the audience are trying to make conversation, polite chatter consisting on anything other than the obvious.

One pair of eyes shadowed by the brim of a helmet catch mine as I run by. I feel guilty that I don’t stop, that I don’t wave, that instead of making eye contact I turn up my ipod and sprint farther away. Running from the eyes that have witnessed a world I cannot even imagine.

The November sunset makes the air chillier and suddenly the warmth of the afternoon has left and my pace is quickened against the gravel. My legs are fatigued and my lungs angry at the altitude. And even though the reality check of soldiers returning home from war is blocks away, I'm not ready to return to my quiet apartment. The soldiers now healed from the shrapnel wounds, the lacerations so horrific, leaving veterans strapped in wheel chairs, those are courageous ones. The ones I want to run up and hug and cry and thank for their strength and endurance. But right now I don't want to. I’m tired.

I reach out at every opportunity I get. I know this. I met a woman in an airport in Austin, she was taking her boots off at the metal detector and I tapped her shoulder, “I don’t know you, but I admire you,” is what I said. She had been deployed several weeks after delivering a baby girl. Can you imagine leaving an infant to powdered milk and instead of rocking and singing lullubyes, hauling a machine gun around the Middle East?

Whenever I see the uniform of patriotism I wince. A bit of guilt for not volunteering as often as I should, a bit of pride to be a native of the same country, but I mostly wince because I don’t want to understand the pain they know, they have felt and that will torture them. I prefer to run far away from the news stations and reality that our world isn’t really the dogs, and strollers and couples laughing over triple vent lattés, it’s a world outside our fictious peaceful American walls. A world where suffering is the norm and people’s only chance for freedom is running away....